Cold Gin, Hot Piano
by leapylion3
Summary: Inspired by 'Chicago' (which the chapter titles are taken from). A tale of murder, betrayal, treason, lies and deceit- which we all hold dear to our hearts. Ned Stark's sudden death results in a lot of questions getting asked. His death- murder, more like- is part of a much bigger equation. One which the Starks are intent on solving. (1920s AU)
1. Prologue

Thanks to Seanna (Charlotte K) for the beta, and also to Kendall (sam2zeus2) for helping me with the plans. I couldn't do it without you guys!

So this story is basically the result of me watching the movie 'Chicago' for the umpteenth time, seeing it on Broadway and then listening to the soundtrack on repeat for days.

Feedback would be greatly appreciated. I hope the lingo doesn't make things too confusing- if so, just ask :)

Thanks! Enjoy!

~Cas

* * *

**_It Started with a Bang_**

Eddard Stark was pronounced dead at 4:27 in the morning, on November 21st, 1927. The news of his death was on the cover of every newspaper in Illinois, and it was all anyone could speak about on the radio. The famed club owner and businessman was well-liked by everyone, and well-loved by quite a few; Ned was a good man.

Ned's godfather, Jon Arryn, died almost exactly six months ago. The doctors said it was because of natural causes and old age, but he had never had any health problems in the past. Most people believed that story; after all, he _was_ past wife, Lysa, fled Chicago right after her husband was declared to be deceased. She and her kid ran away to Jon's estate in the mountainous Colorado, and hasn't been heard from since.

Robert Baratheon, Eddard's best friend and business partner, kicked the bucket five months after Jon passed. Robert got into a bar fight, they said, and the other guy pulled out a knife. His wife, Cersei Lannister, tearfully told the press that he sure did love his booze, maybe even more than he loved her, and it was bound to be his downfall, damn the bull-headed son of a bitch. She smiled sweetly and quickly wrapped up the press conference, then left arm in arm with her twin brother, Jaime.

Three weeks later, Ned was found in his hotel room in Los Angeles, two shots in his chest and one in his head. The gun was left next to his body, though no note or hint was with it. The police tested for fingerprints on the gun and around the room, but the culprit was smart enough to wear gloves. Ned's case was given up on, and, due to the lack of evidence, they declared suicide.

His family knew that it wasn't a suicide. They knew him well enough to know that he wouldn't take his own life. He was a father, a husband, and the last thing he wanted to do was leave his family.

Each member of the family had their own way to cope with Ned's death; Robb took over the club, The Wolves' Den, and focused solely on his work; Jon became a journalist at a dying newspaper, _The Wall_- writing about other people's problems made him feel less shitty about his own; Sansa packed up her things and moved to New York City; Arya became a flapper girl and worked at her gunshots daily, because "you never know when you'll have to blow someone's brains out"; Bran went to the local med school, wanting to help out people like him; and Rickon was practically living at the Baratheon manor with his sort-of girlfriend, Shireen.

Catelyn took things the hardest, since she had not been there for Ned, and had not been able to see him one last time. She tried to help out Robb as best as she could with the club, but soon developed a routine of staying locked in her room and nursing a bottle of bootlegged whiskey. She'd taken up smoking again, too, which she hadn't done since she was pregnant with Robb.

The news reported suicide, the whispers around town said murder. The Starks only talked of vengeance.

* * *

**_Start the Car_**

Catelyn is trying to get the family together for Ned's funeral, which has not been an easy feat, since the Starks seem to have a penchant for going missing or running away. Benjen hasn't been seen for months on end, lost on some camping trip in Vermont; Sansa packed up her bags and moved to the Big Apple almost five months ago, and there hasn't been any word from her; and Rickon can almost be considered missing, for he's constantly at Shireen Baratheon's house.

Edmure and Brynden are coming in from Virginia, and there's still been no word from Lysa. Cat's father is practically on his deathbed, so there's no chance of him coming. Dr. Luwin, the family practitioner, says that Ned's funeral will be a rather small affair, and she thinks that suits her husband just fine; Ned was always a quiet one.

Catelyn has tried to get in contact with Sansa, but the girl seems to have been wiped off the face of the earth. It's after she finishes her third shot of whiskey- drinking became a habit of hers, after Ned died-, she decides to drive to the Big Apple to find her daughter. Cat extinguishes her cigarette and moves about the room to pack her bags.

She'll kill two birds with one stone, too; her old friend, Petyr, lives in New York also. The Starks have decided that there's something bigger to Ned's death; murder. Petyr may be in the Big Apple now, a long ways from Chicago, but if you need information, he's the one to go to.

Cat brushes past her oldest son, who's talking to Theon Greyjoy at one of the tables in the club; their apartment is right above The Wolves' Den, and Cat still thinks it's a wonder she can ever fall asleep with the music blasting until the early hours of the morning.

"Ma!" Robb calls, cigar hanging out of the corner of his mouth. "Where are you goin'?"

"New York City." She shrugs on her trench coat and puts on a hat. "I need to find Sansa." _And Petyr._

"Ma, are you crazy? That's almost a day's drive; you can't go alone." From next to her son, Theon chuckles silently, his signature smirk on his lips.

"I'll be fine, Robb." She picks up her suitcase and pushes open the door. "I'll call you when I get there, alright? I'll only be away for a few days; you won't even know I'm gone." Wordlessly, Robb crosses the room and pulls her into a tight hug. "I'm taking the Royce," she murmurs into the crook of his neck, a hint of a laugh in her voice. Before her son can refuse, she dashes out of the door, throwing a quick "I love you!" over her shoulder.

She feels like a young girl again as she hops into the car. She thinks back to when she and Lysa were teenagers, and when they 'borrowed' their dad's car and took a spin around Virginia. She feels a slight pang in her chest, but it quickly passes, a newfound sense of determination replacing it.

Cat pops open the glove box, her eyes scanning for the pistol. It may be Robb's car, but she made a few adjustments of her own, hiding things here and there. She finds the small gun and tucks it into her garter belt, a small smile of triumph on her face.

_Sansa Stark, you're gonna get in this car with me, if it's the last thing I do._


	2. Chapter One

**_The Lady Raking in the Chips_**

Jon picks up a copy of _The Wall_ as he enters the office, snagging one from the large stacks of freshly printed papers. It's a routine of his; he always gets to work after the newspapers are printed for the day, so they're warm to the touch. He also arrives right after Grenn counts the copies, and the big oaf is too meat-headed to notice if one went missing, and he can't even tell that Jon's hands are grey and black from the fresh ink.

The office for _The Wall_ is a dingy little building, and the old land lady is always threatening to shut them down. _The Wall_ used to be really successful, up until the star reporter, Mance Rayder, quit. He had enough money, publicity and luck to open up a club in downtown Chicago, but it's too exclusive for anyone Jon knows to get in.

Jon still likes working here. He likes the sound of the _clicks_ and _taps_ on the typewriters, and likes to see the articles and pictures for the next issue hanging on the bulletin boards. He likes the smells of the warm paper and ink that hit him hard whenever he steps through the doors. Most of all, he likes how him being an illegitimate kid doesn't matter here.

"Jon!" Jeor Mormont barks. Mormont is the editor-in-chief and owner of the newspaper, and has the ability to scare the living daylights out of any poor unsuspecting sap. Jon's been here for a few months, so he's used to it, and Jeor's even starting to take a liking to him.

"Yes, sir?" Jon pokes his head into Mormont's office.

"We just got an appointment for an interview with Val Frost at Thenn's Diner." Mormont waves Jon away. "Get your crew ready and meet her there in an hour."

Jon swallows thickly, nervousness bubbling in the pit of his stomach. "Yes, sir." He scurries to his cubicle, his pulse racing. He's interviewed people before, but never someone as big as Val Frost. She's Chicago's best Vaudeville performer, and has quite the reputation.

"Slow down there, tiger," Alys teases, stretching up to grin at him from above the divisors between their two cubicles. Alys Karstark is Jon's partner in crime, so to speak; the only member of Jon's 'crew' Mormont was talking about. She's with him at every interview, pen and paper in his hand and a camera in hers. He writes, she photographs. They make it work.

"What's got you so worked up?" she asks, flipping through the pages of her Hemingway book.

"Interview with Val Frost in an hour," he replies hurriedly, scrounging around his desk for a pencil and a pad of paper. "Get your camera ready; we're leaving in five."

"Will you stand still for two seconds? You're making me dizzy with all your movin' about."

"Huh? Oh, right, sorry." With a sigh, he collapses into his chair.

Alys comes around and joins him in his cubicle, a small smile on her face. She opens the drawer on Jon's right hand side and pulls out a whole pack of pencils and a large pad of paper, clucking her tongue softly. "Thanks," he mutters, blushing.

"Look, there's nothin' to worry about, alright?" She sits on the edge of his desk, her gum snapping in her mouth. "She's just a normal person, like you and me." She ruffles his hair, a little habit she developed after spending more and more time with him. "You're the star reporter here; you got everythin' under control."

"I hope you're right."

"When am I not?" She beams. I think you wanna make a good impression, so how about we clean you up a bit."

Jon's been the victim of makeovers at the hands of his younger sisters, and has no interest whatsoever of repeating that experience. "Alys, I don't think-"

"Relax, I'm not gonna dress you up like one of those flappers." She pulls out the newspaper that's tucked into his jacket pocket. "I just meant takin' this out before the ink smudges everywhere. Wouldn't wanna ruin your jacket."

"Oh."

"And maybe fixin' your hair." She licks the palm of her hand and tries to smooth back his hair, but the curls bounce right back. Alys laughs, then hops off his desk. "I'll get my camera and we'll be on our way." She heads back to her cubicle.

Jon's eyes land on the newspaper in front of him. In bold, huge letters reads: _Eddard Stark's death declared to be suicide. _Scowling, Jon crumples the paper into a ball. _Suicide, my ass._ He's disgusted how _The Wall_ actually published that bullshit.

"Do you think it's the truth?" he asks Alys, holding the wrinkled cover page over the divisor.

"Doubt it," she answers, slipping a new roll of film into her camera. "But then again, when does the news ever tell the truth?"

"Don't you think they should?"

"What does it matter what _I_ think?" Her tone's sharper than he expects, and he finds himself at a loss for words. "Sorry. Let's...let's go. Don't wanna be late for your big interview." Her smile is strained as she hoists her bag onto her shoulder.

They walk to the car in silence before Jon finally turns to her; "What do you think happened to my old man?"

"Honestly?" She shrugs. "I think every bit of truth, every piece of evidence, died with him." Another shrug. "The police gave up the case already; there's no use waitin' for nothin'."

"What about us?"

Alys eyes him strangely. "What do you mean?"

"I think we should investigate further."

She snorts and rolls her eyes. "Look, Jon, I know he was your pops and all, but where are we gonna start?" He doesn't have a response for that- she's right. "How about we just focus on gettin' this interview done?" She sounds tired, and her usually cheerful attitude seems to be chipping away.

"Yeah. Okay. Sounds good."

* * *

Jon Stark is an idiot. That's the only conclusion Alys can come to. He's an idiot who can't see what's right under his nose, what's been there for months now. At this rate, she thinks it's a miracle that he can remember to breathe in and out every few seconds.

But she still loves him. She thinks that's what love really is; loving someone and continuing to love them despite their flaws. Even if he's really, _really_ stupid.

She thinks it's obvious that she has feelings for him; she follows him around for whatever interview he needs, she helps him out, and she does whatever he asks.

All of those included, she's also giving Val Frost the deadliest glare she can muster, and she thinks she must be green from jealousy. _Frost is a stupid stage name anyway._

"I can't thank you enough for taking time out of your busy schedule to do this interview." It's Jon's standard opener- or his standard ass-kisser, as Alys likes to say.

"It's no trouble at all," Val drawls, batting her eyelashes. "You know, can I just say how adorable it is that you two are married, _and_ a team in the work field?" She flashes Alys a grin, which makes her even angrier.

"Oh, Miss Frost, Alys and I aren't-"

"Oh?" The blonde feigns innocence.

"You're not the first to think it," Alys blurts out, and she remembers why she leaves the talking to Jon.

"What?" Jon and Val both stare at her in confusion.

"Nothing," she squeaks. "Say cheese, Miss Frost." She quickly snaps a picture, and her hands are shaking so badly she must have only gotten a shot of the napkin dispenser on the table. Jon shoots her a warning look and kicks her in the shin under the table.

Alys finds it hard to focus on the interview. She hates the looks Val gives Jon, hates how she laughs at his stupid jokes and hates how she leans forward to give him a perfect view of her cleavage. She absentmindedly snaps a few pictures of Val, but only one or two will actually be good enough for the article- if she's lucky.

She's beyond relieved when she hears Jon thank Val for her time. She takes one or two last shots of the Vaudeville performer, hoping the good angles will appease Jon, since he's no doubt pissed at her. "I'm sure these will come out great," Alys tells Val, a hint of smugness in her tone as she glances sideways at Jon.

"I'm sure. I've seen some of your work in the paper." Val smiles at her, and the photographer can't help the swell of pride inside her; _Val Frost likes my work. __**The**__ Val Frost._

Alys and Jon pack up silently, only sparing each other a couple of glances. She feels guilty for acting so jealous, but Goddammit, he's practically hers already; she must have married him in her head around a dozen times already.

"Jon? Can I speak to you for a second?" Jon rushes over to Val, who's talking to Jarl, her chauffeur and rumoured lover. Alys stays behind, taking extra long with putting her camera into her bag. She acts casual as she listens to their conversation, checking her watch, looking over Jon's notes, checking her watch again...

"I heard about your old man's death."

"So did everyone in Illinois, Miss Frost."

"But not everyone has my status." Val lights a cigarette, taking a long drag. "You hear a lot of things when you go club to club. It's like a little war between families, did you know that?" The blonde chuckles and takes another drag. "It's like an opera; very entertaining."

"What are you getting at, Miss Frost?"

"Please, call me Val." The smell of cigarette smoke wafts by Alys' nose. "I'll cut to the chase. You want information, and I got it."

There's a long pause, and Alys holds her breath until Jon responds: "What's the catch?"

"No catch. Just a gal tryin' ta help out a fella." Alys doesn't trust her- she thinks something smells a bit fishy, and not just the tuna malt being served to the man sitting next to her.

"Alright, so shoot. Tell me what you know."

Val gasps in mock-horror. "Not here. It's already bad enough that I'm tellin' you this much." Val plays with the ends of her short hair. "Come to my place tomorrow night, and I'll tell you everything I know." She pauses and Alys can feel her eyes burning holes into her back. "_Parlez-vous le français_, Jon Stark?"

He clears his throat. "_Un peu_."

"_Bien. Venez sans la petite chienne_."

Alys knows a bit of French, having visited her great-uncle up in Montreal. Her hands clench and unclench, and it takes all of her willpower to not smash her chair over Val's pretty blonde head. _Jon, I swear, if you agree to go with this...this __**quiff**__-_

"I'll be there." Val smiles at him and writes her address on a napkin.

Alys' heart sinks into her stomach. She feels sick, tears burning at the back of her eyes. Jon Stark is really,_ really_, **_really_** stupid.


	3. Chapter Two

**_A Moving Target's Hard to Hit_**

Robb Stark makes up an excuse to leave and heads over to the bar, cursing under his breath. All these men are the same; they only want one thing: money. As he sits down at the bar, he wonders how the hell his father had managed to stay in the business for this long, and still have an interest in continuing. It's only been a month, and Robb wants nothing more than to pull all his hair out and paste a big sign on the club window reading 'closed'.

"What can I get you, Mr. Stark?" the bartender, Gendry, asks, leaning against the counter. Gendry came here a couple months ago, and no one really knows anything about him; then again, he doesn't really have any answers to those questions, either. He said his dad abandoned him and his mom and he never met him. But Robb and the other Starks noticed the heavy resemblance to Robert Baratheon, and he couldn't help but wonder…

"Brown plaid." He tosses a couple of coins onto the table as a tip. The liquor was another problem he had to deal with; the Prohibition. They haven't had any problems with the cops yet, but there was always that chance. Even though The Wolves' Den is a pretty high end joint, but even this club's frequenters can't do without booze.

"Here you go, Mr. Stark," Gendry says, sliding the drink forward with one hand and pocketing the change with the other. The bartender dashes off to attend to other customers, leaving Robb alone.

Stark's eyes drift to the stage, where Roslin Frey stands, gently swaying her hips to the soft music. She's arguably Robb's best investment; everyone keeps coming back to see Roslin perform. Her silver-sequined dress sparkles brightly under the spotlight, giving her an almost inhuman glow. She catches his eye and winks at him, causing him to uncharacteristically blush.

"There's somethin' special about her, ain't there?" Dacey Mormont- one of Robb's most trusted business partners- says, lighting up a cigarette. She sits on a stool next to him and takes a long drag of her cig. "You know, I used to wanna be a singer." She laughs and takes another drag. "Too bad I'm a pretty shitty dancer." Robb laughs with her and takes a sip of his Scotch whiskey. "And I'm getting old, Robb. Older than I intended."

"Come on, don't say that." He playfully elbows her in the ribs.

She grins at him, her cig hanging out of the corner of her mouth. "You're just saying that 'cause I help you make money." They both laugh and he lets her head off, leaving him alone again.

Roslin performs a couple more numbers before taking a bow. Roses get tossed onstage while the band plays her exit music. She blows a kiss to the crowd and goes backstage, the cheers still roaring even minutes later. Robb can't help but chuckle; it's usually the same people who come to the club, and Roslin performs a similar act each night, yet the crowd gets louder and louder every time.

The crowd piles out a short while later, and soon, only Robb, Gendry, Roslin and a few other employees are left hanging around. Theon's not anywhere in sight- says he took Ros out for a couple of drinks. Robb can't help but feel a little odd without Theon at his side; they've always been there for one another.

"Hey, Gendry- martini, please?" Robb looks over and sees that Roslin had taken a seat a few stools away from him. She looks exhausted after a night of performing, and he can't blame her; she really works her ass off up there.

"Coming up, Ms. Frey."

Stark plops himself on the bar stool next to the club singer. "You were really good tonight," he tells her, running his finger over the rim of his glass. Roslin smiles tiredly at him in thanks and takes a swig of the martini. While she stares ahead, drinking, Robb takes the time to study her. She covered her flashy dress with a trench coat and pulled her hair into a bun at the back of her head- he's never seen her in regular clothes before. He decides he likes it.

"Sorry if I'm boring you," she says softly after a few moments of silence. "I don't really talk much in real life." She chuckles a bit and takes another sip of her martini.

"I'm surprised," Robb admits. "I mean, what with all you do…up there…" He blushes a bit, remembering her sultry dance moves and the wink she sent his way.

She laughs at his embarrassment and he can't help but laugh with her. "I'm a different person up there. It's weird, I don't know how to explain it." She shrugs. "Up there, I'm Roslin Frey. When the show's over, I'm just Rose."

Stark grins, his fingers tapping on the bar counter. "I think I'd like to know more about Rose." Roslin blushes fiercely and tries to hide her face behind her glass.

Robb opens his mouth to say something else, but is quickly cut off by the sound of gunshots. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Alebelly, one of the bouncers, fall to his knees, blood pouring out of his chest. "Get down!" Robb shouts to Roslin, who's ghostly pale and frozen in fear.

A bullet whizzes past his ear, shattering bottles of booze everywhere. Another bullet comes their way, and Robb knocks Roslin to the ground before she can get hurt by everything that's flying. He reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out the pistol, squeezing an eye shut to aim.

"Get behind the bar!" he orders Roslin and Gendry, trying to distinguish where the shots are coming from. The bartender has to help Roslin to her feet, as she's trembling violently. "Stay here, and don't move," Stark orders, then begins to crawl on the floor, pistol in hand.

"Stark, watch out-!" The voice of Mikken- another one of the bouncers- gets cut off with a groan as a bullet plants itself in his shoulder. Another hits him in the leg, bringing him to the ground. A third shot ricochets off the bar and hits him in the back.

Robb's hands are white- almost transparent- from gripping the gun so tightly. He still can't see the criminal, the bastard who shot down two of his men. After Mikken falls face first onto the floor, the gunshots cease.

"Gendry? Roslin?" he calls, slowly standing on shaking legs. The pistol is still in his hand as he looks around and tries to register the scene in front of him. Shattered bottles are littered everywhere and the skins on the drums are pierced right through. There's a thin veil of smoke throughout the club, the result of a few shot light bulbs.

"We're fine, Mr. Stark," Gendry assures him, helping Roslin to her feet. Her eyes are so wide Robb fears that they'll pop out of their sockets.

"Gendry, do you mind taking her home?" He speaks to the bartender, but his gaze never leaves the club singer. "I don't think it's safe for either of you to be alone."

"Of course, sir."

Roslin's hand grips Robb arm tightly before Gendry can lead her away. "Robb, this is part of a bigger thing than you can imagine." She releases the hold on his arm. "I'll try and help you in any way I can." With a nod, she and Gendry leave the club, staying close together.

"Robb, what the fuck just happened?" Dacey demands, storming towards him. "I go to use the ladies' room, and I come back to this-"

"I don't know what happened," he responds, much calmer than he actually feels. His hands are trembling, his finger hovering over the pistol's trigger. He pockets his gun before something bad happens. "Dacey, please, just call the police. I'll get Jon on the phone."

Her lips are pursed into a thin, grim line when she nods. "Right away, boss." She spins around and goes to make the call, her high heels clicking on the shiny floor, the sound echoing in his ears.

He gets Jon on the phone, and his half-brother sounds extremely groggy and annoyed. "Robb, it's midnight. What do you want-?"

"Mikken and Alebelly are dead," he cuts him off, his foot tapping impatiently. "There was a shooting at the club. Roslin almost got hit."

There's silence on the other end for quite awhile, before Jon finally responds. "There's something a lot bigger out there, ain't there?"

Robb sighs. "That's what Roslin told me. And I'm starting to think that she's right."

"Where's Greyjoy?"

"Not here."

"…okay."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

A beat. "Nothing. I'm just tired, alright? Alys and I will drop by soon."

Robb groans. "An interview _now_? Really?"

"Hey, I gotta make a living too." Robb hears Jon moving about- he figures he's getting his stuff together. "I'll call Alys and we'll be there in an hour, alright?"

"Great. I'll see you then."

* * *

**_Who Said that Murder's not an Art?_**

"I think that was a job well done," Asha admits, smiling languidly. She holds a cigarette in between her lips as she opens the driver's door to the car. The gold bumper and embellishments sparkle dimly in the dark. The black car is shiny from its frequent wax jobs, and the small golden kraken on the hood winks at her.

"You're driving?"

"Yeah, what of it?"

"It's my car."

"I'm older."

"I'm a better driver."

Asha grins at her younger brother and steps inside the car anyway. "I'm older," she repeats, sitting in the driver's seat. Her younger brother grumbles under his breath and goes around to sit on the passenger side.

"I say we make a toast," Asha declares when he's sitting down. She pulls a flask out of her garter belt and holds it up high. "Go ahead, baby brother."

Theon scowls and snatches the flask away from her. He thinks for a moment before screwing the lid off. "A toast…to decreasing numbers." He throws his head back and takes a swig of the whiskey.

Asha grins and takes the flask back from him. "And I make a toast…" She raises it high in the air. "I make a toast to theatricality and artwork."


	4. Chapter Three

Heeeere's Dany!

And violence. More violence.

And a fight.

This chapter is just not very nice.

Enjoy (or try)! xox

* * *

_**He Came Toward Me**_

"I'm home!" She hears the voice resonating throughout their small apartment as her brother slams the door shut. She can hear the heavy stomps of his boots, can feel the vibrations of his movements.

Dany curls up into a smaller, tighter ball under her bed sheets, clutching them closer to her chin. Her brother's drunken mumblings make their way to their shared bedroom and she can tell that he's really far gone this time. Usually when he's drunk, he collapses on the couch a few moments after he enters. But she can hear him walking closer to the bedroom, and her heart pounds loudly in anticipation and fear.

"Are you in here?" Viserys' words are slurred as he turns the doorknob, stepping into the bedroom. His lip curls in disdain upon seeing her. "What are you doing?"

"What do you mean?"

He shakes his head and begins to undress, reaching for his tattered pajamas. "Look at what you're wearing, slut." Dany barely flinches at his cutting, belittling statement; after living with only Viserys for her whole life, she's learned to tolerate his stinging words and hateful glares.

"It's my nightgown," she replies quietly, finally.

He dresses into his pajamas, the pile of his day clothes on the floor reeking of booze. "What if someone came in here while I was gone? What if they saw you dressed like a slut?"

"The door was locked," she says.

He snorts and crawls into his bed, which is across from hers. "You're so stupid. They would have guns and knives and hammers. You're so naïve, Daenerys."

"Nothing happened. I don't understand why you're so upset-"

"I can't have my sister parading around like a quiff!" In an instant, he's on top of her, his breath smelling like whiskey and invading her nostrils. She swears she can still see cigarette smoke blowing out of his mouth and nose, like the dragons in the story he tells her about, how he _is _a dragon. "Maybe you'd like it if someone came in here and violated you." His hand connects with her cheek, whipping her head to the side. She doesn't cry out; she's used to it.

Viserys is never usually like this when he's drunk. He leaves her alone most of the time. Dany does not fear for her safety when he comes home stinking of smoke and booze; she's only scared when he's in one of his bad moods. The drinking has nothing to do with his abuse.

...so why is had he just slapped her? His knees are straddling her hips, making it hard for her to move. Either he isn't even drunk, or he's the most drunk he's ever been.

"What do you have to say about that, _quiff_?" Vis sneers, pinning her shoulders to the bed with his calloused hands.

"I say _stop_!" Her bold and loud voice surprises the both of them. Viserys' mask slips for a split second, shock taking its place as he tried to register what just happened.

"What did you say?"

"_Stop_! You get off of me right now!" Dany is breathing heavily and she squirms under his iron, unrelenting grip.

"You're so threatening," he says sarcastically, rolling his eyes after he regains his composure.

"I'll call the police!" That only makes him bark out a laugh.

"Like they would believe you." His hand rises for another slap, but before she can even think, her own hand comes up and grabs his wrist tightly in hers. She slaps him first while she searches and gropes under her pillow with the other.

"Raise your hand to me again, I dare you!" His eyes widen until she thinks they'll pop out of their sockets. Her hand is trembling violently and her knuckles are almost transparent because of how tight she's holding the gun.

Nothing feels real. It feels like an out of body experience for Dany. She's not _really_ pointing a loaded gun at her _brother_, is she? _It's a dream, all a dream, nothing is real..._

She tastes blood on her lip- he must have split it after he slapped her. The smell of booze and smoke radiating off of him is as clear as day. _Everything is real, that's why I'm scared..._

"You wouldn't," he murmurs eventually, his eyes boring into hers. It's like a mirror, she thinks, the violet looking into violet. "Dany, please, _think_-"

"You should have thought before you hit me!" There's a deafening _bang_, and before she realizes what's happening, Viserys collapses on top of her, blood coming out of his mouth, his last breath on his lips.

He's gone. The only person Dany could count on is _gone_. He was the only one who cared for her and made sure there was food on the table for her and made sure she had a bed to sleep in every night.

And she killed him.

She can almost hear the police sirens. Surely one of the neighbors had heard the gunshot, right? Or was it only that loud to her?

Her movements are stiff as she pushes him off of her and rolls out of bed. She has to get out of here- _now_. She quickly scrubs her hands clean of the blood in the small sink. She shoves everything she can into a small leather bag and probably forgets some important things, but she's running on automatic; she can barely see through the tears and her thoughts are jumbled incoherent.

Dany somehow remembers their stash of emergency money. She digs around the room and finally finds it in her brother's mattress. She tosses the stack of bills into her leather bag and zips it up. She shrugs on a trench coat and plucks the car keys out of Vis' jacket pocket, left in a messy pile on the floor.

In the doorway, she hesitates for a moment. She looks back over her shoulder, the car keys digging into the palm of her hand. "You were no dragon," she whispers, slinking deeper into the trench coat. "You were nothing but a snake."

* * *

_**Isn't it Good, Isn't it Grand?**_

Alys doesn't like being woken up this early. Jon knows this. But the case was big, the article had potential, and he had to see his brother. It's three thirty-six in the morning, and they collapse into the car, absolutely exhausted. Alys still has her hair in curlers and her blouse doesn't even match her skirt. Then again, Jon still has his pajama bottoms on, so he shouldn't be talking.

"You owe me one, Stark," she mutters, her head falling against the headrest. She reaches into his glove compartment and pulls out a pack of cigarettes, holding one between her lips. She lights it, and Jon notices that her hands are trembling.

"Thank you," he says for about the hundredth time tonight, "for coming."

She finally succeeds in lighting the cigarette and puts the box and matches back into the glove compartment. "Where else would I rather be at three in the morning?" she jokes, taking a drag. He smiles and starts driving- he isn't even sure if he's supposed to take her home, or if she'd come to the office to get the story printed up.

"Are you alright?" he asks, taking a peek of her out of the corner of his eye. She doesn't normally smoke unless she's nervous about something. And her hands are shaking so violently he's tempted to swing by the hospital and get her checked out.

"I'm fine," she murmurs, her voice husky from the smoke. "Just running low on fuel. And it's not every day you see a double murder like that." Her other hand fidgets with the camera in her lap, her fingers running over the edges. She sighs, smoke wafting by his nose. "Just take me home. Please. I don't think I can handle going to the office now."

He nods although he feels his heart sink in his chest. She's always at his side…why should this time be any different? Even the thought of her not accompanying him made him feel nervous. They were supposed to be partners, right?

They pull up outside her apartment a few minutes later, both of them still silent. _It's early, that's all…_Jon repeats over and over to himself. He can't help but feel as if he's done something to get her pissed at him. "Hey, Alys?" He cuts the engine and they remain sitting.

"Hmm?" She flicks the cigarette out the window.

"Look, I-I'm sorry that I made you come to the club tonight. You didn't have to." He meets her eyes and can see them soften. "You're great, alright?" He takes her hand and squeezes it, wills it to stop shaking.

"I-it's not a big deal," she mutters, looking down. Her hair falls in front of her face, but Jon can see her reddening neck and cheeks. "Jon, can I be honest with you?"

"Yeah, of course."

Alys pushes her hair back from her face and shyly looks up at him. "I don't really know how to say it…" She gnaws on her lip and he can sense her discomfort. He gives her hand another squeeze. "Two things, actually. It's, uh, well…first is about Val…"

"Shit, I forgot about that." After talking to Robb, he knew that talking to Val was an even greater importance than before. "Are you coming with me tonight?"

Her eyes harden instantly. "She told me not to go."

He shrugs a shoulder. "I'm sure she won't mind." He smiles, hoping to lighten the mood. "And, hey, I need my photographer."

Alys pulls her hand away from his, shaking her head. "Jon, I can't, alright? I don't know if you're that stupid and clueless and you can't see it, or if you just don't _care_." She throws open the car door and steps outside, holding her coat tighter against her. "I'm going on a date with Sigorn tonight, okay? Do I need your permission for that?" Her words sting him like a slap to the face. "Yeah, that's right, I can get a date. Shocker, huh? He asked me out while you were chatting it up with your pretty little blonde."

"Alys, why are you-"

"Why am I mad?" She kicks the side of his car, and though it isn't that hard, he winces. He'll probably have to repaint the scratches now. "I'm mad because you're so _dense_!" Another kick. "Have fun with your blonde quiff. I'll see you at work, okay?" She slams the door shut and dashes into the apartment.

Jon's heart is pounding loudly in his chest and he finds it hard to move for awhile. Alys has never gotten mad at him before. Why now? Why when they're in the middle of the case?

Her camera still sits on the seat next to him. Sighing, he begins to drive to the office. An early start might help him get his mind off of things.

Mormont gave him the keys to the building about a month or so back- said he gained his trust. It's absolutely silent when Jon enters the office, but when he flicks on the lights, it's not too bad. The earliest shift starts at six, so it won't be that long until people start to file in.

He types up his article while he waits for the photos to develop. Robb told him that he's gonna do some more investigating, although most of the things he told him aren't safe to put in the article. Talked of revenge and murder and vengeance. Jon's used to it; Robb's not one to let things slide.

Jon checks the pictures when they're developed; because Alys isn't here, he just decided to develop the whole thing. Usually she tells him which ones to use, or even develops them herself. A block of ice settles in the pit of his stomach at the thought of Alys.

He flips through them and picks out a few he'll use. He sees a few shots of the club- she must have taken them when she wandered off for a couple minutes when she was bored. Robb throwing back a shot of whiskey, or him avoiding the cameras. There's a couple shots of Arya, which brings a smile to his face; her hair is in disarray from sleep and she's wearing her favourite nightgown. Bran's lounging in his wheelchair, staying away from cameras and reporters. Rickon looks beyond bored, leaning against the wall with his pup, Shaggydog, in his lap.

A lot of the other shots are of _him_. Him talking to Robb, him jotting down things in his notebook. Alys has talent, he thinks, and perfect timing; she was even able to get pictures of him looking right at the camera and smiling.

He sits down in his chair and continues to flip through the pictures, a small smile on his face. He was lucky to have Alys.


	5. Chapter Four

Sorry for the delay! Hope the chapter makes up for it xox

* * *

**_Never Even Know I'm There_**

Catelyn's first thought upon entering the city is that she'll never find her daughter. She's never been to New York City before, and all she can think is how _huge_ it is. Crowds everywhere, lights and signs and so much to see. Chicago's a big city, but nothing compared to the Big Apple. While caught in the bumper to bumper traffic, she ponders on where to start. She's not sure how she's supposed to find Sansa. Even if she goes up and down every single street, she's bound to miss something. Bound to miss Sansa.

Catelyn hasn't heard from her in months. What if she doesn't_ want_ Cat to find her? Or, worse, what if she's _dead_? Catelyn shrugs that thought away; surely the school or one of Sansa's friends would have called her, if that were the case.

She pulls up in front of New York University in Greenwich Village, deciding the school campus is a good place to start. She walks aimlessly around the huge campus, searching for a glimpse of her daughter's signature auburn hair. Brown, blonde, black- _red_. Cat is about to run over to the redhead, but is quick to realize that the hair is too bright, too ugly, too fake, to be her daughter's.

She goes to the administration office; maybe they can tell her where Sansa is. "Good morning," she says politely, smiling charmingly. "I was wondering if I could check in on my daughter?"

The secretary looks up from her notepad and returns her smile. "Of course, madam." She stands up and heads to the filing cabinet. "Your daughter's name?"

"Sansa Stark."

The secretary searches for a few minutes while Catelyn impatiently taps her foot. Anticipation bubbles in her chest, her pulse racing. She jerks at the slightest sound, whipping her head to the direction of the source of the noise. She swears she can even hear Sansa's voice in the quiet room, her giggles interwoven with her hushed words like she always does when she's not supposed to be talking.

"Madam?" The secretary's voice snaps Cat back to reality. She stares at the younger woman with wide blue eyes, her breath catching in her throat. "I'm sorry, but there are no records of your daughter." Her gaze is sympathetic and slightly confused as she watches Catelyn.

"Alright," Cat croaks out eventually, her throat unbearably dry. "Thank you." She dashes out of the office right after the words are said. Her hands are trembling violently as she fumbles for the car keys in her purse. _Sansa Stark, where the hell are you?_

Her coming here seems completely useless now. It was a wasted trip, and she never should have come here. She thinks she would rather still believe that Sansa was attending the university- as she believed for so many months- than know the truth. At least then she wouldn't be worrying this damn much. _How hard is it to pick up the phone and tell us how you're doing?_

She slides into the Rolls Royce and slams her head down on the wheel, screwing her eyes shut. She tries to calm her palpitating heart and takes a few deep breaths. Tears burn behind her eyelids and threaten to escape. She's feeling tens and hundreds of emotions at the same time: hurt, anger, confusion, despair, fear.

Catelyn takes one more deep breath and clutches the wheel tighter. She tosses her hair behind her shoulder and straightens her posture. She came here for a reason, and she wouldn't leave here without getting answers. She puts the keys in the ignition and begins to drive to the only place where there's any hope left: Petyr's.

* * *

Catelyn pulls up in front of _The Mockingbird_, Petyr's small currency exchange shop. She recognizes it from the few pictures he sent her when they used to write letters to each other. They stopped coming in a few years ago, after she offered to drop by sometime and see him. Both she and Ned had thought it odd that Petyr stopped writing so abruptly. Even years later, she can't help but think that he never wanted her to come here.

The bell hanging above the door tinkles as she steps into the shop. The shop is rather small, and quite far from the big streets. Everything is made of either wood or stone, giving the room an ancient feel to it.

"Hello?" Cat calls, her heels echoing on the floor. She can hear jazz music playing faintly from a few rooms over. She peels off her gloves and slips them into her coat pocket, her eyes warily scanning the area. "The sign says open," she tries again, licking her lips.

There's a bit of a ruckus in the back area before the door behind the counter opens. "Terribly sorry, madam-" Petyr cuts himself off when he registers who the visitor is. "Cat." He visibly relaxes, a large grin on his face. "It's been too long." He looks exactly as she remembers, with his watchful gaze and long spindly fingers. He grew, that's for sure, and there's a pointed beard on his cheeks and chin, but he is still the same young boy from her childhood.

"Much too long," she says tightly, her muscles tensing.

"I'm sorry about Ned," he tells her. She can tell that his sympathy is feigned; his eyes sparkle with what seems to be amusement. _How about I put three bullets in the love of __**your **__life and have you live with it? Won't be so funny then_.

"I didn't come here for pleasantries, I'm afraid. I need information." _Hopefully he's the same boy that I remember, not just on the outside, but on the inside as well._

His grin melts into a sly, mischievous smirk. "That will cost you, Catelyn."

She frowns. "Petyr, I'm asking as a friend. Please."

"Friends?" He shakes his head a little. "I'm afraid I don't have any of those. Acquaintances, maybe. Friends are the ones who stab you in the back." He shrugs languidly. "At least if you only have enemies, you know who to watch out for." He pulls out a pack of cigarettes. "Cig?"

"No." She pushes the pack away. She can't believe him. "Petyr, what happened to you?"

He lights the cigarette. "I grew up, Cat. Maybe you should try it."

She gapes at him. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

He scowls. "Don't act so innocent, Catelyn." He never uses her full name- her veins turn to ice. "You waltz in here and expect my help, calling me_friend_, when you've never treated me as such."

"What-"

"Brandon." The mention of her ex-boyfriend's- _dead _ex-boyfriend's- name is like a slap to the face. "He almost killed me, Cat. Had a gun to my chest and a knife to my neck."

"I told him to stop-"

"And then you didn't speak to me for years." The cigarette smoke wafts by her nose. "It will cost you, Catelyn," he says again.

Glaring at him, Cat pulls out the wad of money from her small purse. She slams it down on the table and looks at Petyr in disgust. He picks up the money and quickly counts it, his smirk widening after every bill he counts. "Now we understand each other."

"You're going to tell me where Sansa is and just what the hell happened to her."

He sits on the edge of the counter, his finger running over the edge of the bills. "Last I heard, she went to university here-"

"You and I both know that's a load of shit."

Littlefinger beams at her. "Alright, I can't lie to you about _that_, then." He takes a long drag of the cigarette; Catelyn can tell it's a cheap one by the flaking and the bad odor.

She clenches her jaw and pulls out the pistol from her garter belt. "You lie to me and it'll be the last thing you do." They stay this way in silence for what seems like ages, Cat pointing the gun at Petyr, the cigarette hanging out of the corner of his mouth. Both of them have blank masks, emotionless.

"That's a bluff," he says finally.

She never tears her gaze away from him as she cocks the small gun, her thumb hovering over the trigger. "Try me."

A voice breaks their silent stare-down, drifting into the main room from the back area. "Dad?" Cat furrows her brow. **_Dad_**_? Since when is Petyr a father? _"What's going on?" The voice is so familiar; Cat _knows _it, but she can't put a name to it.

A girl comes into the front room and meets Catelyn's eyes. Her hair is dyed a muddy brown and blends into the wooden cabinets behind her. She's wearing a plain blue dress instead of her usual sparkly outfits, but it's her all the same. Catelyn can tell by the eyes.

"_Sansa_."


	6. Chapter Five

Hey guys! Sorry for the hiatus...I hope this chapter makes up for it.

How is everyone liking the season so far? I really love it.

Thanks for all the support- it really means a lot.

Enjoy! xoxo

* * *

**_Nightly Brawl_**

Jon pulls up in front of Val's house, anxiousness burning in the pit of his stomach. The house is pretty big, with a huge iron gate up front. He sees Val's chauffeur, Jarl, leaning against the brick wall- no doubt waiting for him. Jon swallows thickly and steps out of the car, slamming the door behind him. _Now or never_.

The two walk through the door, and Jon can see just how big this house is. He pauses to glance at the interesting paintings hanging on the walls- probably bootlegs. He blushes at some of them, the ones that depict men and women in amorous positions. "Miss Frost has a great collection," he mutters, trying to play the part of the polite guest.

Jarl chuckles, shaking his head. "She really likes ya, Val does," he says nonchalantly, popping his gum. There's a warning tone in his voice, though, and Jon pales when he sees the barrel of a gun poking out of Jarl's suit sleeve. "I'll give ya some advice, kid."

"Y-yes?"

"Watch out for her." Jarl smiles, almost wistfully, blowing out a low whistle. "I love that girl, I do. But she jumps from one to the other, never staying for long. You know what I'm talkin' about?" He doesn't wait for Jon to respond, but instead continues to talk. "She can't make up her mind. I think she's lost."

"Lost?"

Jarl barks out a laugh, a teasing glint in his eye. "Lost, you know, not found. Missing." He sighs, shoving his hands into his pockets. "She's built this whole persona up for herself. But it's not the real her. She's forgotten her roots, where she comes from." He sighs, fixing the bowler hat on his head. "It's exhausting."

"Why do you stay?"

Jarl shrugs languidly, his shoulders coming up to his ears. "Sometimes I think it's 'cause I got nothin' better to do. Other times…well, I think she needs me. She needs _someone_. But do you know what it all comes down to?" Jon shakes his head. "It comes down to love, kid. I love that girl, no matter how crazy or lost she is." Jarl tosses his gum into the garbage, then lights up a cigar.

"Did you tell her?" Jon asks in spite of himself. "What you told me, I mean. How you feel about her?"

Jarl smiles sadly, holding the fat cigar in between his fingers. "What's Miss Frost gonna do with a guy like me? We fool around a little, yeah, but can you imagine Val Frost settling down and getting married?" He takes a drag. "Nah, she'd never give it up," he says, more to himself. "Not for me, anyway."

As if on cue, Val saunters down the stairs, a cloche hat snug on her head. The fur shawl around her hangs low, showing off her pale shoulders. She smirks when she catches Jon's wandering eye, and clucks her tongue. "I hope you weren't saying anything bad about me," Val says airily to Jarl, putting a hand on his shoulder.

"What, me? 'Course not."

The three go to the den, where Jarl makes them each a martini. Val invites Jon to sit on the couch, and he only obliges so he doesn't seem like a bad guest. He was raised to be courteous- _pretend _to be anyway, since he really didn't want to be here now.

"So, Jon Stark," Val purrs, crossing her legs; her short dress rides up, exposing quite a bit of her thighs, "how about we get down to business?" He jumps a little at that, his cheeks heating up, fumbling with the martini glass in his hand.

"R-right," he coughs. "I-I have the newspaper, the one w-with the article about my dad…" He reaches into his back pocket to pull out the paper, but her hand on his wrist stops him.

"Oh, Jon, I've read all about it. Just sit back and listen."

She tells him about a night at Mance's club a few months back (_"I really can't remember what night…oh, it was so long ago, you know. And so much booze…"_), when a few of those Lannister folk came in (_"Somethin' fishy about those lions. I never trusted them."_). She says that she saw Tywin Lannister, the owner of some of the biggest businesses in town (_"It's not every day you see Tywin Lannister in the same room as some prostitutes…oh, don't look at me like that, Stark. Of course it was one of those clubs."_), and he was talking to his daughter, Cersei, and his brother, Kevan.

"Miss Frost, I don't mean to be rude, but can we talk about my dad?"

She rolls her eyes and waves a dismissive hand. "I was getting there. Now, if you'll let me finish…" She glares at him pointedly. "_Anyway_, they were talkin' 'bout somethin' with a Stark-Baratheon alliance…I'm sure you know all about that."

"Yeah, Robert Baratheon and my dad were business partners for awhile."

"There ya go." She finishes her martini and sets the glass down on the coffee table in front of them. "Cersei kept talkin' 'bout…_murder_."

Jon raises an eyebrow. "Murder? Who's murder, exactly?"

"Robert Baratheon."

"Her husband?"

"That's the one." She laughs suddenly, shaking her head a little. "He was a fat, drunk slob. But he wasn't such a bad guy. He got her to the top. And she just knocked him right back down."

The sounds of gunshots and shattering glass echo in Jon's ears. Automatically, he pushes Val to the ground, protecting her. He takes the small pistol out of his belt, the pistol he'd borrowed from Robb, just in case. Val shrieks as more glass flies in their direction.

"Get down!" Jarl orders, shooting out the window. They hear a faint cry, and they know that he got at least one man. "Jon, take her upstairs. I'll take care of this-"

"We're not leaving you alone!" Jon shouts back, pulling the trigger. He jerks, flinching; that's the first time he's ever shot a gun. _There's a first time for everything…_

"I can handle it!" Jarl reloads his gun, his jaw clenched tight. "Jon, I swear, if you don't take her-" He cuts himself off, rushing to Val as a bullet whizzes through the air. He dives in front of her, taking the shot with hardly more than a grunt. Val screams, covering her hand with her mouth. Her mascara runs as her tears fall, leaving a watery, black trail behind on her cheeks.

The shooting stops. Jon can scarcely hear the car screeching away, but he's not focused on that. He kneels next to Val, putting a reassuring arm around her waist. "It's fine, Val. I'll call the doctor-"

"Jon," Jarl wheezes, a bloody grin on his face. Blood pumps rhythmically out of his chest wound, even with his hand pressing hard on it. "It's fine, kid. It's my time to go. Let it be."

"Jarl, no, stop it, stop it _right now_," Val snaps, sobbing hysterically. "You're gonna make it. I _forbid _you to die, Goddammit!" She buries her face into Jon's neck as Jarl's breaths slow down.

"Val," Jarl croaks, his bloodstained hand finding hers, "Val Frost. I-I love-" He freezes, taking in his last breath. Val's shaking in Jon's arms, her fingers still intertwined with Jarl's.

"Val," Jon whispers awhile later, rubbing her shoulder soothingly. "I'm gonna call the police. We're gonna find out who did this, we're gonna-"

"No!" she screams, squirming out of his embrace. "Just leave! You never should have come here!" Her sobs are persistent, her chest heaving up and down. "Leave! I never want to see you again!"

* * *

On the ride home, Jon drives slowly, still shaken up. _Lannisters_, his mind keeps whispering. Of _course_ it was them, those bloody bastards. They always know, somehow. _And if they don't like it, well, __**you'll**__ know __**that**__._

He passes by Thenn's Diner, his heart leaping into his throat when he sees Alys and Sigorn walking hand in hand on the sidewalk. His hands are shaking on the steering wheel, and he grips it even harder, his knuckles turning white. _So she __**wasn't**__ lying…_

With a sigh, he continues the drive home. As much as he'd like to go over there and kick Sigorn's ass, he knows that wouldn't do much good. As long as she's happy, right?

* * *

He hears the knock at the door almost right after he enters his apartment himself. "Jon," Alys calls, worry evident in her voice, "it's me. Can I come in?" He opens the door for her, and has the breath knocked from him when she flings herself into his arms, hugging him tightly. "God, I heard what happened at Val's house. I'm so, so sorry. I should have been there-"

"No, you shouldn't have. You would have gotten hurt." He's surprised by the rough tone of his voice.

She leans back, smiling softly. "I'm just glad you're alright." She gasps, staring at his upper arm. "No, wait, I take that back."

"What?"

"Jon, there's a shard of glass in your arm!" She ushers him to the bathroom. "God, you're such an _idiot_! Do you know how much danger you can be in right now?" She mutters profanities as she sits him down on the edge of the bathtub, peeling off his shirt. Alys slides the first aid kit out from under the sink and helps patch him up.

"It's not even that bad," Jon mumbles dejectedly.

"It could get a whole lot worse," she retorts, cleaning the dried blood off of his arm. She sighs and wraps the bandage around his arm, her expression softening. "You gotta be more careful."

"Yeah, I know." He remembers her and Sigorn walking arm in arm, jealousy stabbing at his gut. "Shouldn't you be with Sigorn?" he spits, jerking away from her. Pain shoots up his arm, eliciting a small hiss from him.

"You're such an idiot," she repeats, softer this time, running her hand through his curls. "We're partners in crime, remember? I can't just leave you." She closes the first aid kit and puts it back, her movements slow. "He drove me here. He understands."

Jon takes the glass of water and aspirin she offers. "I don't wanna get in the way of you two. I don't wanna make you unhappy," he says after swallowing the pill.

She chuckles a bit, looking down at him as if he were a small child. She helps him up and leads him to his bedroom. "You should get some rest," she whispers.

"I should." He lies down on the bed and wraps an arm around her waist, pulling her on top of him. "Alys," he murmurs, tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear. He feels drowsy from the medication, his eyes beginning to droop shut. "Y-you're the best thing t-that's happened to me…" His voice is slurred, and he thinks he must have bought a stronger dose than he thought.

She presses a kiss to his forehead, pushing back his damp curls. "Jon, you're not thinking straight. Go to bed." He tilts his chin up, meeting her lips in a chaste kiss. She tenses on top of him, and for a moment, he thinks he's done something wrong, but she relaxes a second later, returning the kiss. "Jon," she murmurs, gently pulling his hands away when he tries to unbutton her blouse, "not tonight. You need some sleep." She moves to get up, but his hand darts out and catches her wrist.

"Stay with me. Please." His eyelids are heavy, and as he falls asleep, he feels Alys curling up beside him.

* * *

Yeeeeeeah I went all Doctor Who on you guys. Sorry 'bout that.


	7. Chapter Six

Hullo all! :)

I just want to say thanks for all the lovely reviews and favourites/subscriptions...you guys are great.

Enjoy! xoxo

* * *

**_Go to Hell in a Fast Car_**

She drives all through the night, taking any and every shortcut she can, speeding past red lights. She thinks it would be funny if she got caught by the police for driving too fast. Irony is always a pain in the ass.

Dany has plans to make it to Chicago by morning, maybe move back in with Illyrio. She'd cut her hair short and dye it black, become one of those flapper girls Viserys always scorned. She'd change her name and start fresh. For once in her life, she can live how she wants to. She can _be _somebody.

A spluttering, gurgling noise returns fear to her heart. Screeching follows, the harsh mechanical grinding echoing in her ears. The ride is bumpier now, rattling the chunky bracelets hanging on her wrists. The car seems to cough, the smell of burnt gas invading Dany's nostrils.

The car suddenly halts, emitting a quiet, drawn-out deflating sound. She repeatedly steps on the gas pedal, squeezing her eyes shut as desperate prayers leave her lips. The headlights are still shining brightly, making her the perfect target.

A tapping on the window rips a scream from her throat. The man's voice is muffled by the glass, but Daenerys can make out the outlines of his face and scraggly beard as he searches around with a flashlight. He doesn't _look _like a cop…

"Who are you?" she demands once the window is rolled down. She takes the pistol from her garter belt and points it out the window. She's certain she looks more insane than anything else. The man only smiles a little at her attempt at intimidation.

"Jorah Mormont," he replies, his voice gruff and rasping. "What's a young thing like you doing out here so late?"

Dany swallows thickly, her hands trembling. "M-my car broke down." That seems innocent enough.

Jorah makes a sound in the back of his throat, obviously thinking. "I can take you to the garage in the morning. You can stay at my place tonight, if you'd like. If not, there's a motel a couple blocks away I can drive you to."

She picks the first option and helps him push her car into his driveway. He shows her around inside; his house isn't terribly big, but it's much bigger than the shabby apartment she'd shared with Vis. She settles into the guest room and takes the cup of tea Jorah offers.

She doesn't sleep that night, but instead paces around the room. She finds it odd that he hasn't asked her her name yet. Does he already know who she is? Shit, he probably does. The purple eyes and platinum hair are a dead giveaway.

She left the door halfway open, so she does not flinch when Jorah steps inside a couple hours later. He stares at her in shock and wonder for a few moments, his hands grasping the dresser for purchase. "Lynesse?" he whispers. The smell of whiskey clings strongly to him, making her stomach churn. With all of Viserys' drinking, she'd grown to hate booze.

"I-I'm sorry," Daenerys squeaks out, keeping her distance from the man. "I-I'm not Lynesse."

He opens his mouth to speak, as if he would try to convince her otherwise. It's just a drunken dream, though, and he knows it. "I'm sorry," he mutters, moving his eyes to the floor. "I thought- for a second- that you were someone else."

She smiles softly. "Sorry to disappoint," she says, not unkindly.

"Can you…tell me who you are?" He laughs a little, hollow and bitter. "Just so I don't keep hoping."

She trusts this man, and she doesn't understand why. Maybe it's the endearing laugh lines around his mouth, or the ever present twinkle in his eye. "Daenerys Targaryen," she murmurs. "You can call me Dany. My brother called me Dany."

He studies her, his eyes narrowing slightly. "I knew your brother," Jorah admits.

"Viserys?"

"Rhaegar."

Vis had told her wonderful stories of their older brother. Dany herself had never met him, but she feels as if he's her closest friend. Sweet, brave and honorable Rhaegar.

"He was a good man," Jorah says.

A quiet "yes" is all she can manage. She finally meets his gaze, her heart thumping loudly in her chest. "Who did you think I was? If you don't mind me asking. You called me-"

"Lynesse." He seems to have sobered up. "She's my wife. Or, _was_, anyway." He shrugs. "You look like her, that's all."

"Was?"

He shrugs again and jams his hands into his pockets. "She just got up and left one day when I was at work. Left without so much as a goodbye. I…haven't heard from her since." His cheek twitches. "That was a year ago." In that moment, he looks like he's aged ten years. His shoulders hunch, making his clothes look much baggier. Dany notices the stains on his shirt and pants, how crumpled his garments look, with one of his shirttails sticking out.

"I'm sorry."

"I should be apologizing." Jorah sits on a chair on the far side of the room, his movements sluggish. "I must have scared the living daylights out of you."

"It's fine, really."

"I'm not gonna hurt you."

For the first time in awhile, Daenerys feels the tension ease from her muscles. She sighs deeply, the fatigue finally catching up with her, and she lets it. She can trust him. He won't hurt her.

She sits down on the bed and tells him everything. She has no idea what makes her divulge all of this. But once she opens her mouth, the words keep spilling out.

"So you're on the run," Jorah confirms when she's done talking. She nods her head vigorously, her pulse racing. He clasps his hands and rests his elbows on his knees, exhaling in a low whistle. "I might be able to help you out. I have a…a friend."

"A lawyer?"

He chuckles. "You can call him that. He's just a good talker, is all." He pulls a cigarette out from the pack in his jacket; Dany refuses politely when he offers her one. "You might have heard of him," he says, lighting the cig between his lips. "His name's Tyrion Lannister."

* * *

**_Razzle Dazzle 'em, and You've Got a Romance_**

The club still runs as if nothing has happened. Business is booming, as usual, and the customers don't even seem to take notice of the doubled security. Robb's certain that they didn't even read the paper, which reported the shooting and had updates for days. As long as they get their booze and dancing girls, they're happy.

"Mr. Stark," Olyvar Frey pipes up, sliding over next to Robb. He's one of Roslin's many brothers, and one of the only ones Robb _likes_. He's lost track of the number of Freys. "Your uncles are here." Olyver nods towards the door and Robb relaxes at the sight of two familiar faces.

"Robb!" Edmure grins, the toothpick hanging out of the corner of his mouth. He enfolds the younger man into a hug. Brynden claps Robb on the shoulder, a smile on his weathered features. "It's good to see ya. Last time we saw each other, I swear, you were up to my waist." Robb towers over him now, though, despite being ten years younger than him.

"You look just like your mother," Brynden comments, shaking Robb's hand. Robb doesn't think he's ever met his great-uncle, and if he did, he must have been too young to remember. He instantly takes a liking to the old man's bright eyes and kind face.

"He'll look just as pretty in a skirt," Theon hoots, slapping Robb's ass. "Theon Greyjoy," he drawls, giving Edmure and Brynden a bow before scurrying after Ros. He's drunk already- Robb can tell just by the grin on his friend's face.

"Sorry about my friend," Robb mumbles, rubbing a hand over his reddening face. "He's a bit…he's just a bit odd, that's all." He leads Brynden and Edmure to a closed-off booth at the back of the club.

"Greyjoys," Edmure practically sneers, "all of them are a bit 'odd'." The Greyjoys have always been outcasted by the other rich families, and no one can understand why Robb is friends with Theon. _He's not like the others_, he wants to tell his uncle, but he keeps his mouth shut.

"We're sorry about your father," Brynden says, smoothly changing the subject. He kicks Edmure's shin under the table and the younger man yelps in surprise, but nods in agreement. "We came as soon as we could."

"Where's Cat?" Edmure asks, looking around the club. He fixes the bowler hat on his head to get a better view.

Robb shifts in his seat, unsure whether or not to tell him. He doesn't want Edmure and Brynden to worry. "She's on a little excursion. She should be back home soon. She just needed a break from everything." The tension eases from his shoulders when his uncle doesn't question further.

"Ladies and gentlemen!" Theon taps on the microphone on the stage, getting everyone's attention. He seems to have sobered up within the past few minutes. At least Robb hopes he did. "I'm proud to present The Wolves' Den's pride and joy, everyone's favourite jazz babe, Roslin Frey!" The crowd cheers as the petite brunette saunters on the stage, her purple sequined dress shimmering in the dim light.

Edmure lets out a low whistle, leaning back into the cushions. "Baby vamp," he murmurs, his eyes following Roslin's every movement. Jealousy pumps through Robb's veins, but he only scowls instead of lashing out at his uncle. "Never thought a Frey could have such a nice..._chassis_." He makes a crude gesture, outlining the curves of her body. He laughs and orders a drink from a passing server.

Robb idly listens to his uncles' chatter; most of it is drowned out by shouts of "get hot, get hot!" and wolf whistles directed at Roslin. He catches her eye and she winks at him, the strap of her dress purposely falling off her shoulder. He grins back and tips his hat at her, laughing when the crowd gets even louder.

"Did you see that?" Edmure exclaims, looking as giddy as a kid on Christmas morning. "She winked at me!" Brynden gives Robb a knowing look, but doesn't say anything. "Do you think you can get me some time with her after?"

Robb almost chokes on his scotch. "W-we're not that…kind of club, Uncle." He wipes his mouth on the back of his sleeve. "She's not that kind of girl." _And she's not __**your **__girl, either_.

Roslin comes over to them after her act is done, a charming smile on her lips. "Evening, gentlemen." Her voice is slightly out of breath and her cheeks are flushed from all the dancing she did. "Mind if I join you?"

Edmure stands up before she gets a chance to sit down. "I'm Edmure Tully," he introduces himself, shaking her hand. "You were really good up there." He jerks his head toward the stage. She smiles at him, but looks a bit uncomfortable when he doesn't let go of her hand. "Can I buy you a drink, doll?"

She looks at Robb for a moment, uncertainty flashing across her face. She turns back to Edmure and plasters the smile on her face again. "Why not?" They go to the bar, arm in arm, and Robb slinks back in his seat, dejected.

"I'm Brynden!" the old man calls after them, waving his hand when they don't hear him. "Don't look so glum, kid. If things are meant to be, it'll work out."

Stark sighs heavily, crossing his arms over his chest. "And until then?"

Brynden takes a couple of drinks off of a passing server's tray. He slides one over to Robb and holds his own glass high. "Until then, we drink."


End file.
